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Bravery II

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Monday, September 17, 2007


We both stared at the large wet patch on the bed.

I frowned. “What the hell is that?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Did you spill on the bed? Naughty boy,” I said, smiling flirtatiously.

“That wasn’t me. I’m still wearing this.” He pointed to the condom wrapped around his penis. “Anyway, I didn’t come.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. You ejected my cock when you squeezed down by coming so hard, remember?”

I bit my lip feeling embarrassed at the strength of my climax, recalling that the last time we had had sex I had done exactly the same. I suddenly felt very selfish.

“Sorry about that, we’ll have to rectify that.” I reached over to him and stroked his hip with my fingertips.

“Will we now?”

I grinned. “Yes.”

He leaned down to my face and kissed me.

“Anyway, even if I had come, there is no way I could make that much mess.”

He patted the dark area on the duvet cover beneath me. I moved off my stomach and sat back on my feet, looking at the duvet. The wet patch was huge, almost a foot across and a foot long. I placed my hand on it and was shocked to discover how wet it was: the material was drenched, soaked through the duvet feathers to the sheet below.

“What the fuck?”


“Feel it. It’s soaking.”

He pressed his hand onto the wet patch. “Wow!”

“Hold on…” I had a sudden thought. “You said you spilled some water, right? God, you are clumsier than me – you managed to get it all over the cover!”

“I did spill some water, but not on the bed. I knocked over a glass, see?” He motioned down to the floor and I peered over the bed. There was a small pool of water on the tiles below; the glass, now empty, stood adjacent to the liquid.

“Are you saying that you didn’t spill the water on the cover?”

“That is exactly what I am saying.”



“So how did the water get there?”

“I think it was you squirting.”


“Come on! There is no other explanation!”

“No way.”

He bent down to sniff the wet patch. “Well, it’s definitely not pee if that’s what you were worried about.”

I cringed and shifted to smell it for myself. I was surprised to discover that it had no odour at all. It was as if someone had poured half a glass of water onto the bed and soaked it. I suddenly became suspicious.

“You’re not fucking with me are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, trying to freak me out by secretly pouring your glass of water on the duvet cover.”

He sighed. “No, I am not fucking with you. Why would I do that? And how could I do that? You haven’t moved from the bed.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Promise me this isn’t some kind of wind up.”

“I promise. Honestly, is it so hard to believe that you wet the duvet?!”

“Well, yes, it is actually.”

“You squirted, there is no other way to explain it. What’s the problem?”

“Well for one, I don’t believe in it. You know me, sceptical as ever. I just don’t support the idea that women ejaculate.”

“Not even when faced with scientific evidence in front of you?!”

I shrugged.

“Look, it’s in the exact spot where you were lying, see?”

He gestured for me to lie back down on the bed and I did, noticing that directly under my groin was the wet patch. It was like lying in one of those police outlines in a crime scene, except instead of chalk representing a death, there was a wet patch providing the liquid evidence of my climax.

I shifted back onto my knees and shook my head in disbelief.

“So you’ve never squirted before?”

“No! And believe me I have tried: every fucking toy and finger action that you can imagine. Given I come very easily and often, I assumed squirting was either a myth dreamt up by porn producers, or that I was just physically unable to do it.”

“Well you’ve been proved wrong on both counts.”

I looked at him sheepishly. “I guess so.”

“That really was a very intense orgasm you had…

I nodded, thinking back to half an hour before; my head buried in the pillow, my eyes blindfolded and my weeping uncontrollably.

“I can’t believe you cried like that. I was worried that I was hurting you too much.”

“Well you were,” I said, rubbing the painful raised welts on my arse from where he had repeatedly whipped me with the cane, “but that wasn’t why I was crying. I mean, there’s no real reason for it; I just think it was my body responding to the incredible – and much needed – release you gave me…”

“…With crying, ejecting my cock, and squirting.”

“Evidently. God, this whole thing has been weird…”

“And enjoyable…”


He pulled off the condom and clambered back onto the bed. I snuggled up to him and felt him harden against me.

Suddenly I realised where he was lying; I tried to pull him away from the soaked area of the bed. “You’re in my wet patch, aren’t you? That’s not very fair!”

“Nah, don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“You’re such a gentleman. I get restrained, whipped, then hugely pleasured and I don’t even have to sleep in my own wet patch: result!”

He laughed and we kissed some more.

“You do realise I will never do that again, don’t you?

“Why not?”

“Because unless the planets are in the correct alignment or something, the possibility of my repeating that is about zero to one.”

“Well, we can but try,” he said, pressing himself against me.

“Well, if you put it that way…”

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